I'm waiting for the "block" to break.
My pen is filled with ink.
Nothing seems to come to mind.
I can barely think.

My rhymes have just meandered
Out the kitchen door.
Inspiration took a day off.
My life's become a bore.

The headlines don't excite me.
The president didn't call.
The queen did not invite me.
There was no mail at all.

The pope just went fishing.
Congress is on a break.
My lottery tickets have disappeared
And I can't stay awake.

I guess I'll stay in bed all day
And enjoy a lengthy nap
And maybe have a dream or two
To get me back on track.

I don't have a poem today
Or wait... I think I do...
I'll call it "I don't have a poem today."
And foist it all on you!

I wish for sleep
A restful night
No pain  no anguish
No endless plight
My breathing measured
My mind all clear
Of stress and strain
Of doubt and fear
And when dusk nears
And dims the light
I'll bless the calm
This dreamless night

After boarding a train, I always fret
if it's the one I'm supposed to get,
And at home at night, I frequently fear
the presence of a burglar near,
And when at work, I sometimes pale
at thoughts my efforts just might fail,
And when treating friends to lunch, I cannot hide
concerns that my credit card might be denied.
But the greatest fear I ever face
is the one that makes my pulse rate race -
It's the one that will not cease or desist
and that's what will be left for me to worry
    about when i've run out of things to worry
    about on my increasingly lengthy worry
    list...

In church pews I am quiet
In libraries I'm hushed
At grave sites I am silent
In theaters I am shushed
In hospital halls I whisper
The epitome of poise
But frankly what I'd welcome now
Is some pure unadulterated NOISE!

Infrequent is my heart...
is the rain...
the sullen part
of every beating fist
against my windowpane,
renouncing all my dreams, my claims,
as if the drops' joyless sound
could split ambition halfway down,
make one part stray like stray balloons,
the other mocking (mere buffoons).
The clown of hope, lost in a crowd,
paints his face orange (loud),
so garish that the image stuns
that part of me devoted to fun,
for the moppet is tossed from here to there,
raggedy moppet who fears flame's glare,
who moves silhouetted across the walls
and sneaks under doors, along dark halls
and whispers to the dead in a far-off place
and sings them to sleep with: "It's no disgrace
to fall like you fell with your hands so bony,
your eyes shut tight and your heartbeat stony!"
Little prophet with buttons for eyes:
snip out your tongue and a roomful of lies
flit in the air like flighty ghosts,
land in the butter, spread on toast.
Infrequent little cups of truth
pass by my mouth, sweeten my tooth,
infrequent as the beating part
of every man's still thirsty heart.

She was always angry when any woman
looked him over, checked him out.

Possessive and jealous, short-
tempered and mean-spirited,
she was a *****. Always poking at
him, second-guessing him, her
bold dark eyes glaring at the
least little slight. And her
tongue knew no limits. She
would dress him down right there
in front of anyone, ridiculing
him, embarrassing him, making
him an obvious target of her fury.

She would wait for him at night,
sitting by the window, her sleepy
cat nestled on her lap, an aromatic
stew or soup or casserole wafting
through the tidy city row house
they shared. He knew if he lived
there much longer he'd end up
with his hands wrapped around her
throat or maybe he'd just slip
some antifreeze in her drink or
he could just walk in and
announce that he finally found
the one true love of his life.

No ****** knives, no smoking guns,
just words aimed directly at the heart.

One snowy night years ago I was driving home
and my ancient classically beautiful ford
thunderbird spun around in a perfect
three hundred and sixty degree
direction careening but in a
slow-motion way on slick ice. I recall pleading
in a frantic prayer to keep my car free
from collision while my body was
angling crazily like a crash test
dummy veering dizzily
but I survived.

I drove home recapturing my breathing with
renewed respect for God's good grace and
my incredible brush with mortality and I
wondered about the snow that falls
settles paints prettifies and terrifies
our universe, that never lets us
forget the drift between life
and death, between fear
and serenity.